


Once Upon A Time... in Thalmor-Oppressed Riverwood

by ktyxdovahkiin



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:46:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15224468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktyxdovahkiin/pseuds/ktyxdovahkiin
Summary: For Dorthe.This work is a homage to the movie "Inglourious Basterds" (sic).





	Once Upon A Time... in Thalmor-Oppressed Riverwood

## Six months after the Dovahkiin disappeared into the mists of Sovngarde

The hammer rose. The hammer fell.

Metal clanged. Sparks flew, as the foot of steel in Alvor's hand slowly gave way to his skill and will. Dorthe stood by, avidly watching her father at work as she always did. The reflection of the forge's embers glinted in her eyes. 

Tomorrow, perhaps. Tomorrow could be the day he decided his little girl was finally old enough to craft her first weapon. A simple dagger, to begin with. By Ysmir, he'd teach her how to do it right: hilt and blade; pommel, tang, grip and guard; shoulder, point, fuller and edge. Simple and strong. She would make it.

Yes. It was time. Time for his Dorthe to take that next step on the path of her life. And then, in time... to walk it alone, without holding his hand.

"Papa!"

He paused and looked up. Dorthe was no longer watching him - something in the distance had caught her attention. He turned to see what it was.

Three there were, always three. One in front, in robes of gilded sable.Two behind, and he could always tell when the setting sun gleamed not on iron or steel, but on quicksilver and moonstone.

He put his hammer down, and plunged the bar of wrought metal into the trough with his tongs. The water sizzled and steam billowed up in a cloud between him and his daughter.

"Dorthe, get me the washbasin and the washcloth over there. Then get inside and stay with your mother. Do as she tells you."

He settled himself down onto a stool as Dorthe hurriedly complied. She put the wooden basin full of fresh, cold river water into his lap carefully, spilling none of it. Good, steady hands she had, his little girl. 

"Papa..." she whispered. Her voice shook only a little. His brave girl.

"Go inside now. Quickly. But don't run."

With sad eyes he watched her go. His eyes grew sadder still as he looked down at the basin in his lap. Six months had passed, and Gerdur had not returned, or been returned. There was no word from her, or of her. Hod spent most of his time alone at home now and was hardly ever seen by the other villagers. Frodnar spent more and more time in the wilds, away from the village, speaking to nobody except his dog. No longer was he the merry prankster of Riverwood, playing often with Dorthe and the others. That child was gone.

Alvor scooped up great handfuls of water, and splashed it liberally over his face and neck, washing away the soot and grime. His flesh tingled with the shock of the cold. It was invigorating, which was good, because he knew he would need his wits about him now.

They were strolling into the village proper, at a leisurely pace, as though they were merely travelers passing through. In a matter of minutes they would be outside his shed. He knew they would not pass him by. He knew they were here for him. But still, as they took step after step, sauntering along, he found himself praying that their steps would indeed carry them past, away from him, out of his village, out of his life.

Then they were here, at his shed, and they stopped.

The Justiciar in front waved the other two - female, lithe and lethally graceful - to a halt, and spoke to them in an undertone that carried easily to Alvor's ears in the still evening air.

"This is the place?"

"Yes, Emissary."

"Wait here unless I send for you. Until then, I am to be left alone."

"As you say, Emissary."

They clicked their heels, and adopted the attitudes of statues.

Alvor waited as the robed Elf approached. This one seemed a little shorter than his fellow Altmer - indeed, his bodyguards seemed taller than he was. And when he drew back his hood, he greeted Alvor with a broad smile, and gestured uncertainly about him with the air of a bemused wayfarer.

"Is this the home and property of Alvor, Master Blacksmith of Riverwood?"

"I don't know about 'master blacksmith', but I am Alvor."

And the Elf did something no Thalmor in Alvor's experience had ever done: he bowed, very low, and very deep.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you at last, Master Alvor. I am your humble servant, Thalmor Third Emissary Landalin. It is my honor to stand before you. I have had such good report of you from the Jarl in Whiterun, and from various citizens who spoke highly of your craft."

Nonplussed, Alvor nevertheless kept his voice steady. "What can I do for you? You need a smith?"

Landalin looked up and met his gaze, still smiling brightly. His teeth gleamed. "I was hoping you could invite me, a weary and footsore traveler, inside your home for some refreshment. And then, perhaps you can assist me a little in my current undertaking. Would you do me this kindness, master craftsman?"

For a long moment, Alvor looked into the Elf's amber eyes. All around them in his blacksmith's shed were the implements of death forged by his own hand - the war had officially ended, but the need for weapons and armor was still very great. His faithful smithing hammer was within reach.   
  
Then the moment passed. "Of course. Please, come with me."

The Elf bowed low again, almost obsequiously, and gestured for him to take the lead.

 

Sigrid and Dorthe were waiting inside when he opened the door. It felt strange, and painful, to see his fiery and spirited wife so subdued, standing with head bowed. And Dorthe was taking her cues from her mother, shuffling nervously from side to side.

Landalin stopped at the threshold, and looked from the one to the other, and back again. Slowly, the broad smile returned to his golden-skinned face.

"My family, Master Landalin."

With a few quick strides the Elf was standing in front of Sigrid, and to her credit she did not flinch. He bowed low, again, in that absurd courtly manner. Then he took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.

"Master Alvor, you have indeed been blessed by the Divines. The praises they sing of your wife's beauty are not exaggerated, not one bit. An exemplar of true Nordic beauty. I congratulate you."

Sigrid smiled, convincingly enough, Alvor thought. "You're too kind. That's very gracious of you to say." But Alvor could see how the pupils of her eyes were dilated - with hatred, anger... terror.

"And this must be... your lovely daughter, Dorthe."

Landalin sank to a knee, and gravely extended his hand, palm upward. Dorthe looked up uncertainly then, at her parents. But the smile was still fixed on her mother's face, and her father gave an imperceptible nod, so she hesitantly put her hand into the Elf's, who solemnly and lightly kissed it as he had for Sigrid.

"I would hardly think it possible, but if it _were_ possible at all for your wife's beauty to be exceeded, Master Alvor, this feat could only be achieved by a daughter of her flesh," he said softly, holding Dorthe's gaze with his own. "Growing up well, are you not, Dorthe? With such parents as these, you shall be a fine, strong daughter of Skyrim indeed, yes?"

Dorthe blushed, and looked away.

His thumb rubbed against her soft palm. "Your calluses become you, young Dorthe. I'm sure your honored father is teaching you all he can of your proud craft. Have you made your first weapon yet?"

Shyly she shook her head.

"But surely you have! Look at you, already so sturdy and strong!" He gripped her shoulders admiringly, and laughed with avuncular delight. His entire manner had undergone a sudden disconcerting change - he was now jovial, genial. "A proper shieldmaiden in the making, eh? Never mind, my dear, your father knows best. But soon, yes? Soon you shall take that first step into womanhood, honoring the proud traditions of your people. Look, I have something to show you."

From his belt he withdrew a dagger, still sheathed, and offered it up gravely for inspection. She took hold of the lacquered ornate handle, and unsheathed the weapon. It was of Altmer make, single-edged with a spine, graceful sweep along the blade towards the trailing point, and a hooked rear quillon at the pommel. The gleam of moonstone was not as rich as that of gold, but the shimmering beauty of the dagger still drew a gasp from Dorthe's lips.

"This was a gift to me, many many years ago, when I was still a young Mer on Auridon. My birthplace, you know," he said conversationally, "on the Summerset Isles. Do you like it?"

She nodded.

"Alas, I wish I had made it myself, but..." He held up his gloved hands and grimaced self-deprecatingly. "I have not the hands for it. Not like you, dear child. In time, your father will teach you to craft something even better than this keepsake of mine, will he not? In the fullness of time, Dorthe, perhaps you will carry on the legacy of your father, hm? Become as good a smith as he is, or who knows... even better?" He grinned, and she grinned back. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Eorlund Gray-Mane could take a few tips from you then, hm?" His eyes twinkled, and so did hers.

"In the fullness of time... when you grow to adulthood..." His voice trailed off then into a whisper. And Alvor felt as though a pit had suddenly opened sickeningly in his chest.

"But forgive me. I am getting ahead of myself. Dorthe, daughter of Alvor... will you do me a signal honor?" He suddenly seemed diffident, shy, awkward. "Would you... accept this humble dagger from me, as a gift?"

"I..." Once again the girl looked to her parents for guidance. Perhaps it was for the better that she did not understand why her mother's face was turning ashen-gray, or why her father's face suddenly looked carved from stone. But Alvor nodded, once, and Dorthe beamed. "Thank you! Thank you so much, Master... um..."

He took hold of her little hands again, and closed her fingers around the sheath as he helped her guide the blade back inside. "To you, young Dorthe, I shall always be Landalin. Just Landalin."

"Thank you, Landalin!"

He rose to his feet, beaming broadly, while Dorthe held the dagger close to her chest.

Alvor gestured. "Please, sit."

Landalin nodded gratefully, and took a seat at Alvor's direction.

Sigrid made as if to go downstairs into the cellar. "If you'd like, sir, we have some Alto wine for you..."

"No, no... Thank you, thank you very much but, no wine, I beg," Landalin interrupted her with an upraised hand. Then he took hold of hers. "This being a Nord household, I would not be amiss if I assumed that you have a store of mead?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Then mead is what I prefer," he said happily, and let her hand go.

Alvor took a seat opposite him, and they waited. Dorthe was sitting on her bed at the far end of the room, admiring the Elven dagger in its sheath, running her thumb over the pommel. From below, they heard Sigrid moving about as she tapped the barrel and filled some tankards.

"Would you like something to eat, Master Landalin?"

"Thank you, but no, we will be dining elsewhere later this evening. But you are very gracious to offer. And please... while I am accepting your hospitality there is no need to stand on ceremony with me. I would be honored if you simply call me by name. I am Landalin, of Auridon. But out of respect to you, Master Alvor, and your reputation, I would like to continue the use of your honorific when addressing you. Would you indulge me in this?"

To this, Alvor could only nod stiffly and say, "You honor us."

Sigrid came back up the steps then, with two tankards filled to the brim with mead. She set them down. Landalin looked up, smiled, thanked her, picked up the tankard, and proceeded to drink.

And drink. And drink. He did not stop until it was drained, tilting his head back to swallow the last of the liquid before expelling his breath with a sigh of contentment.

"Master Alvor, to your craft, your shop, your house, your wife, your daughter and your mead... I humbly offer the highest praise I can conceive of. Shor himself would be proud."

"Thank you."

"I am sure all Skyrim would agree with me. Now then... to business."

He leaned forward, and his brow furrowed with concern. "Master Alvor, I am grateful to you for agreeing to assist me with my task. But such matters as I have to discuss with you are best spoken of privately, between the both of us. You will notice I left my escort outdoors. If it would not offend you, could you ask the ladies of the house to step outside, just for a brief time?"

"You're right. Sigrid, take Dorthe and wait outside. The Emissary and I need to have some words."

"Yes, husband. Dorthe, come along."

When they had gone, Landalin reached into a satchel at his side and began taking out various objects: some rolls of parchment, an inkpot, a quill, and a small leather-bound book. "Now, as to this task of mine... it is administrative in nature. I merely need some confirmation from a resident of Riverwood, of certain details pertaining to recent events, and then I shall be on my way. I require the word of a reputable and upstanding member of the community for this, you understand, and who better than your good self? So... shall we begin?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Good, good." He now had the distracted air of a librarian, or a clerk. "Now... to apprise you, first, of the specific event I am inquiring about... are you aware at all of the recent attack on a carriage between here and the edge of Falkreath Hold? Three days ago, I believe."

"We heard somewhat of it here, yes."

"And what have you heard?"

"We heard it was a bandit attack. A foolhardy lot, to attack an armed carriage this way, but these are desperate times."

"Indeed. Have you heard any rumors of Stormcloaks being responsible for the attack?"

"I can't say I have. The Stormcloaks are defeated, broken. The Dragonborn saw to that. I can't imagine there're very many of them still around, not after Ulfric's death and the fall of Windhelm."

"Ah, you must mean the liberation and reclamation of Windhelm. Yes?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

"Just a minor quibble, please do not take offense. Were any of you in Riverwood aware of the identity of the passengers on that unfortunate carriage?"

"I can't say for sure, but... there were some in the tavern that night who spoke of some... Imperial dignitaries, from Cyrodiil, or some such."

"It may interest you to know that Leonora Venatus, Imperial Liaison to the Aldmeri Dominion, was riding on that carriage. She was on her way to Solitude for an important council."

"I see. Did she survive?"

"Sadly, no. We found her body. She is likely to have been the target of the brutal attack. Did you hear of any survivors?" Even while he spoke, conversationally, Landalin was scribbling, making notes in a script that Alvor couldn't recognize.

"We had heard there were no survivors. Like you said, it was brutal."

"And what of the raiders? The Stormcloaks? Or, as you say, bandits?"

"I'm not sure. I think most of us heard that they fled into the woods of Falkreath, or the Jerall foothills."

"So the rumors have been of escape? Of retreat after their successful assassination?"

"That's as much as I could tell you. I haven't paid much attention to these matters, I'm afraid."

"Are you familiar with a man named Ralof? I believe he hails from these parts?"

"Yes. I know him."

"Would you consider him a friend of yours?"

"He and my nephew were friends, growing up. As close as brothers. I knew him fairly well, yes. And his sister. Their family built the mill, here, in Riverwood." Alvor could not keep the hardness from entering his voice.

Landalin appeared not to notice. "That would be... let me see..." He consulted his leather-bound book. "Gerdur, yes? Registered owner of the water mill here? And she is married... to a man by the name of Hod... number of offspring, one...?" His voice went up quizzically.

"A son. Frodnar."

"Frodnar. With a 'd', yes, not a 'th'? I see." He wrote down a few more lines on the parchment. "And how old is Frodnar?"

"About a dozen winters. This year is his twelfth."

This was duly and diligently recorded. "And the last you have heard of Ralof was..."

"He and my nephew had a falling out when the civil war started. They haven't been on speaking terms since. The last I heard of Ralof, he was at the Battle of Windhelm. He may have been killed in the fighting."

"Possible death in battle... at Windhelm, in Eastmarch Hold..." More flowing lines of script. "Your nephew. That would be Hadvar, correct? Serving in the Imperial Legion, currently holding the rank of Praefect?"

"Yes, that's him."

"A fine young man. I believe I met him once. He was being commended at an investiture of some sort. Of course," Landalin made a little wave with his hand, "coming from your lineage, it is little wonder he would win high honor! You must be very proud of him."

"I am, yes."

"Very well, I'm coming to the end now... bear with me please... just a moment..."

Landalin wrote down some more lines in that flowing script of his. Then he put down the quill, held up the parchment, blew on it a little, and carefully furled it up. 

"Right! I believe I'm almost done here. With your help, this is going very smoothly, which I am very thankful for, I assure you. Now..." He sniffed a little. "I do believe I'm a little peckish. I hate to impose, but... is that rabbit stew I smell?"

"Yes, my wife was just making some for dinner. We have enough for a guest, if you're hungry."

"Just a small bowl, please. Thank you so very much."

Alvor went over to the fireplace with a bowl and ladle, which he dipped into the cooking pot.

"Tell me, Master Alvor," Landalin said, still seated at the table, "are you acquainted with the organization of which I am a part?"

Alvor kept his voice level as he placed the bowl of stew in front of Landalin. "Somewhat. I have little interest in such things."

"But you know of us, yes? You may even have personally seen some of us?"

"I have, yes."

"And people have a nickname for us, do they not? Are you aware of this?"

"I'm aware."

"What are you aware of?" His smile was ingratiating, his voice convivial, his eyes open and guileless.

He hesitated some long moments, before answered. "That you are called Talos-hunters."

"Precisely." Landalin scooped up some rabbit stew, blew on it, and spooned it into his mouth. Then he closed his eyes in bliss.

"A spouse who cooks well is a true blessing in a marriage," he murmured.

Then he opened his eyes again. "I understand your trepidation in answering. You surely worship Talos still, yes?" He raised a placatory hand as Alvor stiffened. "Please. Please. I am not here today in any inquisitorial capacity, nor do I expect to ever occupy such a position. We all know the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, but... truth be told, the Concordat was just a document, was it not? Here in Skyrim, it must have been simply a nonsensical proclamation from afar, made by distant aloof figures in high places, with no relevance whatsoever to daily life as you knew it. Indeed, even in Cyrodiil, we know there are still shrines to Talos scattered throughout the entire countryside, and even more so here in Skyrim.

"I mean to say, I walked past a gigantic statue of Talos in Whiterun itself, when I was visiting Dragonsreach! And a very large shrine there was at the base of the statue, too! And did I do anything about it? Nothing! That is not within my purview or my remit. I said not a word, and instructed my escort to do likewise. I have no intention of forcing myself into every single home to see that the Concordat's rules of worship are properly upheld."

He leaned forward, over his stew. "How does one enforce a ban of that magnitude?" he exclaimed softly, quirking his yellow eyebrows. "It is meaningless! We have these grand theological debates, going on at such rarefied levels - very far above my own poor head, I assure you - and in the meantime, citizens of Skyrim can simply go about their own worship in peace, in the privacy of their own homes. Or could, I should rather say."

He sighed regretfully. "If not for Ulfric Stormcloak stirring things up for his own selfish ends... his destructive agenda... we could have had nominal observance of the Concordat, and tacitly accepted the fact of its unenforceable nature. Perhaps we could have obviated the need to waste resources with futile enforcement efforts here on the ground. Instead, we have had all manner of unconscionable disruption to the lives of ordinary people in Skyrim, and elsewhere. It has all been very clumsily conducted, if you want my view. Very clumsily indeed. Graceless."

Alvor took a sip of mead, and waited.

"But I have to say... though I am rather uninterested in rooting out Talos-worshippers, personally... I do have an interest in hunting down the remnants of Ulfric's Stormcloak renegades. And I am rather good at it."

"I have no doubt."

"I would say, in fact, that I am much more competent than many of my associates in this regard. The feature that makes me such an effective scourge of the Stormcloak rebels is, as opposed to most of my fellow Altmer, I can think like a Nord... where they can only think like Elves. More precisely," he chuckled, "like High Elves."

He ate some more of the stew with relish, before continuing.

"I have always had an interest in the study of Tamriel's varieties of worship. I do believe, Master Alvor, that even today there are many in Skyrim who still cleave to the old Nordic pantheon of deities, which predate - or in some cases, prefigure - the Eight Divines that are currently sanctioned under the terms of the Concordat. Shor, Kyne - a prefigurement of Kynareth, or we could even say Kynareth is a subgradient of Kyne, a rather esoteric point, I believe, I apologize - the Shield-Thane Tsun who guards the Whalebone Bridge in Sovngarde, and so on. And I have even heard interesting tales of an ancient Nordic tribe called the Skaal, who can be found on Solstheim, who believe in one - just one, can you believe it - deity, and various animal spirits.

"You are familiar with these spirits? Bear, Fox, Moth, Owl, and so on? Are you perhaps familiar with how they relate to the known gods of the ancient Nords, your noble predecessors? Well, never mind. I shan't lapse into babbling about minutiae.

"What I want to say is... if I were to determine what attributes the Nordic people as a whole share with a beast, the beast in question would be... a bear.

"A bear, yes. Slow to anger, but terrifying when its fury is unleashed. Stubborn in its ways, fiercely independent to the point of being solitary, but willing and able to defend loved ones with stunning ferocity. A foe not to be trifled with... if one has no choice but to confront a bear as a foe.

"And if I were to compare my people, the Altmer... more specifically, my nation, the Aldmeri Dominion... to one of these sacred animals, it would naturally have to be the dragon. Like your famed Dragonborn, yes? The epitome of power, and the will to power. The insatiable urge to dominate, to rule. But, just as your Dragonborn seems to have tempered her aggression with wisdom, so too does the Aldmeri Dominion seek to achieve a... a certain balance within, one could say. Still, the wings and claws and teeth, they don't go away, do they?

"But if one were to determine which animal it is that a Stormcloak shares attributes with... ah... we would be forced to conclude that it is a rat. Or a skeever, as you have here in Skyrim. Nasty creatures.

"My leaders have said, often and loudly, what amounts to the same thing... but where our conclusions and perspectives differ is that, I don't consider the comparison necessarily an insult.

"Consider for a moment the world that a rat lives in. It is a hostile and unpleasant world, to be sure. If a rat or skeever were to scamper into your front door, right this moment, would you greet it with hostility?"

Alvor slowly replied, "I suppose I would."

"Has a rat or skeever ever done anything to create this animosity you feel toward them?"

"They spread disease. They bite people."

"But so can dogs. Dogs carry fleas. Dogs can become mad, at which time their bites become truly dangerous. I put it to you that any disease a rat or skeever could spread - ataxia, rockjoint, what have you - a dog could spread also. Would you agree?"

"I suppose."

"Yet I assume you don't share the same animosity with dogs as you do with rats, do you?"

"No."

"Yet they are each harmful in their way, are they not? And they are both found in fairly abundant numbers wherever men and mer live, are they not?"

"That's an interesting thought, Master Landalin."

"Ha! However interesting the thought, it makes not  _one bit_ of difference to how you feel, Master Alvor! You would look upon a half-starved wild dog with sympathy, and you might even put out some of your delicious rabbit meat for it. You would hardly do the same for a rat or skeever. If one of those were to come into your house right this moment, would you greet it with a mug of your delicious mead, as you have greeted me?"

"Probably not."

"I didn't think so." Landalin sat back with a satisfied air. "You don't like them. You don't truly know why you don't like them. They strive to survive, just as every living thing strives, but some we love and some we abhor, and all we know is that we find rats repulsive."

Alvor said nothing.

"Consequently, a Thalmor party like mine conducts a search, in a village suspected of hiding Stormcloaks. What do dragons do? They swoop, they loom, they lunge, they roar and threaten, they make a big noise and cast a big shadow. What do bears do? They fight back, and give a good account of themselves. I once personally witnessed a bear bloodying a dragon's snout, driving the winged beast off into the skies. On my honor I swear it! It did happen.

"And meanwhile, where do the rats and skeevers scurry? Into their hidden holes, into all the different places it would never occur to a dragon to search. For one thing, it would never occur to a dragon to hide. To retreat, perhaps, but to hide, never.

"However, the reason that my superiors have plucked me from my verdant gardens and emerald hills of Auridon, and placed me here in the cold, stark beauty of Skyrim, is that  _it does... occur... to me_.

"It does occur to me that the Stormcloaks possess true conviction about their sadly hopeless cause, and believe they are fighting for freedom of worship and the liberation of their homeland. It does occur to me that in the pursuit of this cause, a Stormcloak can perform acts that would be considered reprehensible in some quarters, but justifiable if the central premises of their beliefs are accepted.

"It does occur to me that a Stormcloak's clannishness is essentially a Nordic one, and a Nord who grows up in a village considers all members of that village his or her family, to a greater or lesser extent. It does occur to me that in the wilds, skeevers do share the same caves with bears, who tolerate their presence."

Alvor's tankard was still half-full, and his throat was dry, but he could not move his hand to bring the mead to his mouth. He found he could not move at all.

Landalin began packing up his writing paraphernalia, putting the parchment back into a cylindrical container and shoving it into his satchel.  "So... my assignment dictates that I must have my guards enter your home, and conduct a thorough search, before I can finally cross your family off my list, and if there are any... irregularities... to be found, rest assured they will be. That is... unless..."

He looked up then, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. "Unless you have something to tell me that makes a conducting of a search unnecessary."

Silence, except for the crackling of the dying fire.

"I might add, also, that any information that makes the performance of my duties easier will not be met with punishment. Actually, quite the contrary. It will be met with  _reward._

"And that reward will be this: that your family will cease to be harassed in any way by members of the Thalmor for as long as our presence in your fair homeland is required, as per the terms of the White-Gold Concordat."

They looked at each other then, man and mer, and did not speak.

And did not speak. And did not speak.

Then the Elf spoke.

"You are sheltering an enemy of the Dominion, are you not?"

"... Yes."

"You're sheltering Ralof of Riverwood in your cellar, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Point out to me his approximate location beneath us."

A single tear rolled down Alvor's cheek. He gestured, weakly.

Landalin got up, and slowly moved over to the door. He pointed at the floor, where Alvor had indicated - just under Dorthe's bed - and raised an eyebrow in mute inquiry.

Alvor nodded brokenly.

"Judging from the lack of reaction to our words, I would surmise that Ralof of Riverwood is either asleep or unconscious, or awake and aware but too severely wounded to respond. Is it the latter?"

"Yes."

Landalin opened the door, nodded once, and stepped aside as his two subordinates entered, blades unsheathed, orbs of fire and lightning in their off-hands. He smiled indulgently at someone outside, and Alvor knew the Justiciar was smiling at his daughter.

Then that smile was turned on him. That open, honest, friendly countenance once more shone upon him.

"Well, Master Alvor, it appears our business here is concluded. I thank you for your time..."

Sounds below. A scuffle. Muffled grunts.

"... your kind hospitality..."

The sound of iron slicing into flesh. A cry of pain. The arcane crackle of harnessed lightning.

"... and bid you... a very good evening."

The rest was silence.

* * *

 

_Forgive me. It was for Dorthe. For Dorthe. Forgive me._


End file.
